Every time my daughter comes home with a story about some nightmarish little girl cat at school or on the playground, I find myself telling her to hang out with boys. At her age, girls can be pretty tough on each other. The advice doesn't much help yet; in her almost 10 years on this planet, she has remained unconvinced that there are any boys who aren't gross, with the important exceptions of her cousins. Maybe I'm a fool and should instead encourage the "boys are gross" idea for another ten or so years.

But every time I giver her the boys-are-more-fun advice, I recall my own experiences of the boys who were my friends when I was younger. Having endured the trials and tribulations of what girls do to each other, I emerged from the bag of cats by my high school years to enjoy the company of some really good guys. I think of them and I smile. We had fun. I recall the laughter and see the big smiles of plain fun.

The other day I received an email from one of these guys for this first time in almost 25 years. He was a great guy--or as my mother says when she recalls him, "A nice, nice kid." (In my mother's lexicon, the double adjective "nice, nice" is the ultimate compliment--nice beyond nice--14 karat.)

On the Christmas Day of one of those high school years, he walked across our cold and slushy town to bring me carnations and say Merry Christmas. He was very bold. He came to the front door (we had new carpet and NOBODY came to the front door), and walked across the living room in his sneakers (GASP), and gave me his gift (WOW).

Twenty-five years later, I can't imagine walking into a house full of somebody else's relatives on Christmas and doing that and not knowing what to expect by way of reply.

Twenty-five years later, I still can't take in that someone thought I was worth the trouble.

He was a good friend. Foolish girl that I was, though, I don't think I fully appreciated how good. I get it now, though, and I hope my daughter has more sense than I did and that she makes the most of her time with the good guys. I hope she never lets go of true friends.

Since our conversation, she has pressed me to demonstrate sure knowledge that not all boys are gross, and I have told her the story about the boy who brought mommy flowers no Christmas Day a long, long time ago.

The memory is a blessing in its own right and as a lesson for my kid. The greeting from that friend in the present is also a blessing. Life is beautiful.

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